When I was finishing Back to
School, a book about people seeking a GED or entering an occupational or
academic program at a community college, I imagined what it would have been
like if my mother, Rosie, had been able to go back to school.
Rose Emily Meraglio Rose, like so
many poor immigrant women of her generation, was taken out of school in the
seventh grade to help her mother care for her younger siblings. Though I never
heard her speak ill of her mother, my grandmother, life in the Meraglio
household was terribly hard on Rosie, laborious and oppressive. She eventually
moved to Los Angeles with my father, took care of him as his health failed, and
waited tables to support us. After my father died, my mother eventually
remarried, and my stepfather had a union job that enabled her to live the rest
of her life in relative security and comfort.
Rosie was shrewd, masterful with
people, and endlessly curious about psychology and human behavior. I often
wondered what might have happened if she could have stayed in school—or been
able to go back. I talked about it with friends of mine who knew her well. We
imagined her as a social worker or counselor working with young people. She
would have been a natural.
So there I was, wrapping up Back
to School, and one afternoon I let fancy take over and wrote a short sketch
about my mother. I offer it simply to honor her—and all the newer incarnations
of Rosie.
It is early in the morning at the
local community college. Somewhere in the distance a church bell rings.
Students are coming in from the commuter train and a few line up at food
trucks. A young woman walks by me cradling a cup of coffee; she takes a sip and
lets out a low sigh of comfort. I have spoken with a number of women here who
remind me of my mother. They’re the children of immigrants or immigrants
themselves. They live in crowded households, work in the afternoon or evening,
care for younger siblings or nieces and nephews, are wrapped up in demands and
worry.
I imagine Rosie in a place like
this. Coming back to school in her twenties, nervous, unsure, but feeling the
rush of excitement, a new beginning. Would she enroll in the culinary program?
Or child development? Or maybe psychology—her fascination—with hopes of
becoming a counselor or social worker? What would have been possible for her? I
take the stairs to the second floor of the Humanities Building and sit in the
back row of the Freshman English course. Students are coming in both doors,
filling up the room. I picture Rosie in the front row. She tentatively looks
around, smiles at the woman taking the seat next to her, reaches into the bag
she’s holding and pulls out a notebook. She opens it, lays it flat in front of
her, and runs her hand over the smooth white paper.
